Don't Be Precious

In undergrad, I studied acting. I’m pretty sure my study of and work in theatre has had a profound impact on my writing, and we can unpack that later. I mention it now because my acting teacher/college advisor/mentor/friend Richard Warner would say, all the time,

“Don’t be precious.”

It means, in essence, not to treat your art (or yourself, as the artist) with too much reverence. Don’t lose perspective on your art. Don’t forget the joy and play of it—don’t take yourself so stinkin’ seriously.

It is, of course, contradictory; we can’t be casual and ungentle with our work, or the work won’t ever be our best work. On the other hand, if we aren’t a little careless with it, a little reckless, a little wild and unpredictable, the work will never come to life.

An artist who can’t be a little reckless with their work never sees it finished. They never query that novel, or submit that short story, or enjoy a reader’s response to their words, because they never feel like the work is quite ready to leave the nest.

An artist who is too precious with their words takes themselves too seriously. They lose the fun of telling stories, of this particular story, of connecting with readers. They lose the spark of originality that could make their work sing.

There’s another part of being precious that means we’re too close to our work to gain any objectivity. This must be why writers are cautioned to put their drafts “in a drawer” and “get some space.” You have to be able to see your work without seeing your investment in the work.

All my words are getting in the way of my meaning. So let’s try this.

When I think of a non-literary artist who knows how not to be precious, I think immediately of Andy Goldsworthy. Goldsworthy is a master of ephemeral art. He creates sculptures and paintings in nature, made from nature, that are meant to decay with time. He finds beauty, captures it, and then lets it go.

His work is stunning. Do a google image search. You’ve probably seen it before.

What’s really amazing is that all of the limits on his art (time, materials, place, etc.) force him to have a loose, light touch on the things he creates—and that loose, light touch, those limits, they in turn are what make his art truly remarkable. He doesn’t force them, doesn’t keep too tight a grip on them.

We could do a whole study on art by reading Andy Goldsworthy quotes, but here are a few I leave you to consider in reference to this idea of being too precious: “My sculpture can last for days or a few seconds—what is important to me is the experience of making.”

“When I was at art school, a lot of art education is about art being a means of self-expression…I wanted to shift the emphasis or the intention of my art from something I disgorged myself upon and something that actually fed me or made me see the world or understand the world.”

“One of the most important aspects of my work is the element of discovery—both for myself and for viewers.”

“Mistakes are proof that you’re trying.”

“Sometimes you need to stop doing something to really see it afresh.”

“Art is not a career—it’s a life.”

“All work, good and bad, is documented. Each work grows, strays, decays—integral parts of a cycle…”

To spend much more time here, I think, would be a bit precious, actually. You can reflect on these ideas the same way I will, and let them inform your work. Or not! The choice is ultimately yours.

I’m going to work on holding on a little more loosely, on being a bit lighter in how I approach my work, in giving myself space to be imperfect, to let the imperfections and raw beauty of my own materials (my mind, my vocabulary, my experiences, my way of seeing the world) shine through the cracks in what I write.

This work of mine—it’s not precious. But the chance to create it, to give life to something in my head and share it with the world—that certainly is.